


Damaged thing

by Viviena



Category: Gamer (2009)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Canon, and graphic gang rape, is mentioned, not happened to major characters though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viviena/pseuds/Viviena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kable comes to meet his player and it goes as good as it could have, considering their history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damaged thing

"I used to think about you," Kable says making sure his tone delivers, how much in a bad way he means it. "After really shitty games I tried imagining you there as another toy soldier, covered in gore, trying not to puke your guts out." 

Kable's voice gets rougher, disgust dripping from his mouth with each word. His lips form a cruel quirk. 

"I guess I was stupid then. You wouldn't have made it to the game. Not even as a programmed puppet. With the face like yours, they would have torn you apart like a piece of meat on your very first day." 

Simon looks into his face transfixed, upwards from his sprawl on a bean bag chair. It's hard to tell if he tries to hypnotize Kable with his unnaturally colored eyes, or if he is under some kind of a spell himself. Whatever it is, it doesn't prevent a cocky smirk from stretching his lips wide. 

"What if I said, I would've liked that?" 

"Don't," Kable growls suddenly furious, making a quick step forward and pointing a finger at him. "Don't you fucking joke about shit you don't know of." 

Simon, not even slightly perturbed by his outburst, reclines even more to see him better now, that Kable towers over him. His movements seam both casual and deliberate. He has a mischievous glint in his eyes and Kable knows what's going on. Little shit just maps out their boundaries, wants to see how much and were he can push to evoke reactions. The obvious thing to do is to not react at all, but he is too worked up and on the edge with his fried nerves, bits of memories rushing in front of his eyes every time he blinks. 

"You were the one to bring it up," Simon shrugs carelessly, that smirk still going strong. "I may have a fantasy or two about some fun time with a couple of slayers."

Kable is on him in a second, crushing his windpipe in an unforgiving grip. 

"I saw men ten times tougher than you, screaming and bagging to be put down after getting fucked raw hours after hours. No one granted them that wish and they died in pain still impaled on someone's cock. And that won't even stop the "fun time" most of the times. The crowd is not very squeamish there. You should prey your dirty little fantasies stay in your stupid little head. There are worse ways to die, but not many."

Simon is clearly affected by his tirade and probably more so by the lack of oxygen, gets red in the face and grabs his hand instinctively trying to pry it away. But he still croaks with delight. 

"You are the psycho, you would know."

Kable pushes him even further into the squishy chair surface. 

"Exactly. And don't you ever forget that." 

"Still you are my psycho," Simon continues unbothered, even though his words are slurred, as he's getting closer to passing out. "You won't hurt me."

Kable is so stunned by that statement, that he releases the kid's throat and moves away a bit. It crushes into him the moment later, how his violent reflexes got better of him again. Provoked or not, it is still a bitter understanding, that he will probably never snap out of it completely. Yet another confirmation that he is dangerous. That he had made a right choice staying away from his family. 

But he's so confused by how Simon have said it. Not a trace of doubt in his steady gaze. Like he could actually put his life on this, with a certainty Kable himself can't muster lately. 

He can see angry red marks on Simon's pale neck, that are half way to becoming bruises already. 

"You're batshit crazy, kid."

"There is no such thing as a sane person. Normality is a relative concept and we are all screwed one way or another," Simon says with a bored expression of a person repeating the same notion for hundred's time. 

Did many people call him crazy? For the first time Kable wonders how fucked up it is for a teenager to engage in a slaughterhouse madness of that game. He was probably already screwed up to even start it and got it worse by all the money, and fame, and power in his hands. 

Simon finally drops their eye contact. Not because he is suddenly timid or shy. Quite the opposite, he throws his head back, comfortably resting it on top of the bean bag, staring with a half-smile at the ceiling screen flickering random images. 

Kable can't tear his eyes away from his barred marked throat. 

The boy is an enigma, Kable has to admit. He is both completely transparent and exhibits layers upon layers of something deeper and hard to decipher at the same time. Rich and spoiled brat with a pretty face, clearly enjoying being in the focus of the media attention. All true but not all of the truth? He is also living alone, spending his time bloodily killing people with unlikely precision... just to proceed to saving Kable and his family and well the world, and putting himself in mercy of a murderer that may have wished him painfully dead tad too many times.

"You are a damaged thing," Kable concludes finally and cringes from his own words. 

For the first time something shifts in Simon's eyes. Finally a real teenage emotion - hurt or bitterness or resentment. But then he smiles again and it's a small but most real smile Kable saw on him. 

"Takes one to see one", Simon says and taps the free space on the enormous bean bag. 

Kable contemplates being annoyed by the gesture, because he's not a dog to be called that way. But he decides to drop it just this ones and sits on the floor with his back to the bag instead. He throws his head to look at the ceiling screen and finds out that it actually shows the unending stream of deadly weapons commercials.

The tacky vibrant colors and stupid animations combined with the topic should probably grate on his nerves but for some reason it's relaxing in a numbing way. Something familiar yet distant in it's cartoonish packaging. Simon's limp hand he was barely touching with the crown of his head was the same supposedly aggravating contact that for some reason grounded him instead. The noise in his head finally hushes down and Simon's soft exhale from above probably means it's true for him too.


End file.
